


domestic pressures

by edvic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Childhood Friends, Falling In Love, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Portraits, Post-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Reunions, Sane Tom Riddle, never thought I love them so much but apparently I do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21985909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edvic/pseuds/edvic
Summary: He's stuck in a house that used to be like home. Now, it only feels haunted.
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44
Collections: Chamber of Secrets' Winter Exchange (2019)





	domestic pressures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [limeta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeta/gifts).



> So sorry it's a bit late! Hope you can still enjoy it and thanks so much for the likes list!

“Is it true?” He hears someone say in the dark. “Is he here?”

He doesn’t move. Stays hidden in the shadows. The voice sounds familiar, but something in him defies belief. The corridor is dark and empty if not for the figure at the far end. His thoughts run in so many directions at once and somehow all get stuck in the same place, on the same face. 

It’s been such a terribly long time, he thinks. 

“Draco,” the voice says now, more insistent. 

"Grandpa," says the figure, sounding a bit on edge. "I have to go."

But Draco doesn’t go. He stays where he was, looking at his feet.

“How is he?” The voice asks. 

The figure shrugs.

He thinks that’s exactly how he is. He’s had worse days. Better ones too. Right now, he’s somewhere between life and death. A little bit closer to death, perhaps.

“Will he be staying for long,” the voice wants to know.

“I hope not,” Draco says.

He thinks Draco would be terrified knowing he’s heard it. But at least Draco is able to say the words his father has been thinking for the past few days. It’s almost amusing. It would be even more if he didn’t have to rely on the Malfoys so much.

“Tell him I’m here,” the voice says. “He’ll-”

But he doesn’t get to hear what he’ll do, according to the voice. Draco makes a sound. It’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. 

“Tell him yourself,” Draco says. “No,” he adds, his hands up. Maybe the voice wants to argue. “I have to go now.”

This time, the figure moves down the corridor. Its steps are silent.

He wonders why. Maybe Draco’s only wearing socks. Or maybe they’ve put silencing spells on the floor. It would make sense.

He stays in the shadows for a while, wondering. Then, he turns around and tries not to think.

* * *

_He doesn’t know where to sit. The train is packed and for the first time in a long while he feels terrified. He doesn’t like it, not at all._

_He goes by a group of older girls. They start laughing and even though he knows, logically, there is no reason for them to be laughing at him, the thought appears anyway._

_He starts walking faster._

_There’s a compartment full of kids who look exactly how he feels, but he doesn’t walk in. He’s not sure why. Maybe it’s the obvious manifestation of fear on their faces. He prefers subtlety even though he can't spell it ._

_So he walks on and on and there it is - the very end. There are no more doors to open and he shivers thinking about the embarrassment of going all the way back._

_It’s not even the first real day of school and he’s already a loser. Not exactly how he’s pictured it all._

_This was supposed to be a new start._

_But maybe, he thinks, looking out the window - the sky is cloudy and reminds him of muddy water - this will be nothing more but a continuation of the constant series of misfortunes and tragedies he had to endure so far._

_He’d sigh if he wasn’t worried someone may walk out of one of the compartments and see. They can’t know. Never._

_And then, right when he’s about to pretend the far corner is the most comfortable place to sit down, one of the windows sparkles and bends and then - he tries very hard to keep his mouth closed - a face appears out of nowhere, a face with a bright smile on it._

_“Would you like to join us?” The face says. Tom sees a hand hanging in the air, stretching to greet him._

_He feels like he’s in a kid story. And he’s not a kid. He’s too old for fairy tales._

_He hesitates._

_Then, he nods_.

* * *

It’s awfully hard to find anything in this house, he remembers now. It’s been a while since he’s been here and so, he struggles to follow his old paths. 

There's one room in particular he's interested in, but - as he soon finds out - it may be impossible to get to it without passing by the portrait. And he'd rather not. Not yet, at least. 

He walks by the big room on the first floor, the one with periwinkle blue walls. He'd never call them that if not for the late Mrs Malfoy who insisted they were periwinkle and not any other shade of blue. There’s an old piano there. He can’t play it, but he used to know someone who could.

Then, he finds the library. It doesn't seem as big as when he'd seen it for the first time, but it still has an aura to it. Perhaps magical is not the word he should be using. But it does feel like magic to him. The fireplace is cold and for a moment he wonders if he should call for fire. There are so many things he has to do. He feels tired. He could use a few hours of rest.

Then, on the second floor, he finally sees the familiar door. There's a symbol on it, the one he left there quite some time ago. But there are other symbols too. The older ones. And some new. He doesn't recognize the one in the top left corner. 

Then, the door opens.

He takes a surprised step back.

The face he’s looking at seems equally surprised before it turns terrified.

Draco opens his mouth, but doesn’t speak. He hasn’t learned how to properly address this reluctantly invited guest yet. His father does all the talking usually.

“Good morning, Draco,” he says.

Draco blinks before he says:

“Good morning-” 

He hesitates.

“- my lord,” Tom offers.

Draco nods a bit too quickly. His hair falls onto his face, covering eyes.

“Good morning, my lord.”

He waits for Draco to move, but Draco doesn’t seem eager to let him in.

“Can I?” He says. He tries not to sound too angry, but maybe he does anyway. It’s ridiculous he has to ask.

Draco makes another surprised face. 

He thinks Draco’s not all that similar to his grandfather. There’s a lot of Narcissa in him. Maybe it’s for the better, he thinks.

“My room?” Draco says in the end, the words barely leaving his throat.

“Yes, your room,” he says. He knows how he looks now. He knows how he would’ve looked a long time ago saying the same words. When exactly did he turn into a monster on the outside too, he wonders. He’s been avoiding mirrors since he’s come back.

Draco moves. He looks like he’s trying to say something.

Then, he does.

“I’m not hiding anything,” Draco says.

“I know,” he says.

He looks at the cabinet in the corner, because Draco’s thoughts are running to it loudly. Whatever’s in there, he’s not here for it.

He’s not really sure what he’s looking for, to be quite honest. A memory, perhaps. A feeling.

He doesn’t find anything.

It’s the same bed and the same walls and outside the window - the same garden. 

But he’s not the same, he thinks. Doesn’t fit, like a robe made for someone else. 

He touches the door frame and the wooden wardrobe. He taps on the windowsill. 

He doesn’t feel anything.

“He didn’t die here,” he says. That must be it. That’s why he can’t feel what he’s looking for. Because it’s not the same room. It belongs to Draco now. 

“He wanted to,” Draco says. His voice sounds odd. “Father thought it wasn’t a good idea.”

Of course he didn’t, he thinks. Lucius Malfoy manages to prove himself a fool once more.

“Were you there?” He asks. He’s not sure if he’s interested. Maybe he is, but doesn’t want to admit it.

Draco doesn’t speak, but he sees him nod in the reflection. He sees other things too. A room somewhere else in the manor, a bed with white sheets and the person lying on it. There’s only one candle on the bedside table. It’s dark outside.

“I wanted to say goodbye,” Draco says after a pause. He seems uncomfortable. “He died the next morning.”

It seems there’s something Draco’s not telling him, but for once, he doesn’t insist. He thinks about the bed with white sheets and the person lying on it.

* * *

_“So why won’t you come with me?” Abraxas says._

_They’re sitting in the common room alone. It’s almost five in the morning._

_He’s still trying to study. Abraxas stopped pretending sometime around midnight. Maybe, he thinks, Abraxas is smart enough to wing it as usual._

_Not that he’s not smart enough. He’s just never sure enough._

_“No,” he says, closing his eyes and trying to recall names of all the seven generals of goblin’s second rebellion. “I’d feel-”_

_He’s not sure how exactly he’d feel. Bad, he’d feel bad. And-_

_“-like a nuisance.”_

_“Nonsense,” Abraxas says. He’s sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. “You’d be a guest. My mother loves guests.”_

_“Not my kind of guests, I’m afraid.” He’s still stuck on the fourth goblin general._

_“Why do you think so?” Abraxas wants to know._

_He’s put his chin on his linked hands. His eyes are a nice shade of green. Tom always wanted to have eyes like this, he thinks. But all he got from his mother was this watered-down brown. Like mud._

_“I-”_

_“You don’t know my mother,” Abraxas says._

_“I can imagine.”_

_The fourth goblin general disappears somewhere in the labyrinth of names that mean very little to him._

_“You’ve never met her. Or my father.” Abraxas seems angry. He’s not often angry, Tom thinks, and he looks up. “But you know me. Is this really how you see me?”_

_Tom opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure how to tell Abraxas what he’s thinking about. That if he’d go, he’d have to tell everyone where he came from. And who his parents were. And he doesn’t even know that._

_He looks away. It seems unfair to be judged so harshly. But he didn’t mean to upset Abraxas either._

_“I don’t have anything nice to wear,” he says in the end. The words barely make their way out of him._

_He looks up again. Abraxas is really close. There are seven freckles on his nose. He could name them after the seven goblin generals, he thinks suddenly. It’s really dumb._

_“I’ll tell Cygnus to buy you something. He still owes me after that potion’s exam.”_

_Tom thinks he may be feeling slightly worse now. He didn’t think it was possible._

_“I can’t-”_

_“Count it as a Christmas gift,” Abraxas says. “You won’t be getting anything else.”_

_Abraxas smiles and gives Tom a kick on the shoulder._

_Tom tries to smile too. Abraxas’ joy is pretty contagious, he thinks._

* * *

The meeting doesn’t go the way he’s planned it. Everything feels like it’s falling to pieces. Like they’re not moving forward at all. The prophecy is lost. The child has run away again. Tried to defy him. And Dumbledore- Yes, Dumbledore may be the worst part of it all.

It’s not even about everyone knowing. He can’t hide anymore, but that’s- He thinks he feels relief. He won’t be trapped in this house anymore.

The air outside is colder than he thought it would be. It’s only August. It shouldn’t be this cold.

He keeps walking east. His feet are working on their own it seems. He knows every little piece of grass in the garden he used to love. The garden where-

His left shoe touches something and it doesn’t feel like grass.

He takes a step back.

It can’t be, he thinks.

He kneels down, just to be sure. He’s been searching for it for so long-

The stone clicks under his palm. There’s a golden line running through the middle of it. The stone opens with a crack.

The piece of cloth looks a bit worn out. As if someone has been touching it quite a lot. But it looks oddly dusty too. As if that someone has died a while ago.

The box looks the same though. As if it was yesterday he'd seen it for the last time. The same initials on the lid, the same spell protecting it.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing it here, where someone could see him, but he does it anyway. What is there to lose, he wonders. There’s so little of him left. So very little he hardly feels like himself.

Maybe this- Maybe this could make him feel a bit more. He hopes, but he doesn’t believe.

“Tom,” he reads out loud. His voice sounds different outside of his body than it does inside of it. He shrugs. He hates it. Hates what he’s become. Even if he wanted it all along.

These days, the price he had to pay seems more and more questionable.

_I’ve been waiting for you all Friday. And not only me, but mother too. You know how fond she is of you. She’s been planning on planting gillyweed - not only because she likes gillywater so much, I swear - but said she can’t do it without you. And father - can you believe? - wants to know everything you think about our minister’s latest decree. What I’m trying to say_

There’s a smudge and some words crossed. He remembers how hard he tried to guess what was written there when he’d first received this letter.

He still doesn’t know.

 _Whatever happened,_ he reads on _, please write me back. I’m not angry with you, just dead worried. You wouldn’t be the first one to disappear these days and I have to know. I’ll come and find you if you don’t send an owl this week. And you know how that may end. Imagine me in the middle of London._

_You’re always welcome here, I hope you know that. Even if I may never understand how you feel about things, I am your friend. And I think about you as a friend too._

_Please, come home._

He stops. There’s a postscriptum too, but he can’t see it. He’s not sure why. Something’s wrong with his eyes, he thinks. 

There are other letters, so many of them. Letters from him, letters to him. They smell of lavender. There’s a twig of it at the bottom of the box. 

He looks up and blinks. The sky looks distant and cold.

* * *

_He throws another rock at the window. With every one of them he’s worried he may break something, but he doesn’t. Maybe there’s magic protecting the manor. Against thieves._

_Is he a thief, he wonders._

_He’s wearing a thin shirt and the night is cold. It’s only August. It shouldn’t be this cold._

_He ran out in such a hurry he didn’t think about wearing a coat. He’s not even sure if- No, there was no blood. No blood, only the light._

_He sees it every time he closes his eyes._

_He throws another rock. The window opens before it reaches the glass._

_There’s a sound of pain and surprise. Then, he finally sees the familiar face._

_Abraxas looks sleepy more than anything. He doesn’t even seem annoyed._

_“Who’s there?” He says into the dark._

_Then, he looks down._

_“Tom?”_

_Suddenly, he’s terrified. What is he doing here, he wonders. What was he thinking. This is dangerous for both of them for more reasons than he can count. They could get arrested if-_

_“What are you doing here,” Abraxas asks. He sounds worried. Tom thinks he wouldn’t if he knew what- “Wait,” Abraxas says. “I’m coming down.”_

_The window closes. There’s a light. He watches it disappear and then reappear in a different window._

_He tries not to think. He tries not to close his eyes._

_Then, the light is much closer. It makes the grass look silver._

_Abraxas is wearing a long sleeping gown. It makes him look like a ghost and Tom shivers. He can’t think about it, not now. There are no ghosts here._

_“Are you alright?” Abraxas says. He’s close and he’s touching Tom’s arm, as if checking if he’s there for real. Tom isn’t sure if he’s real, not anymore. “What happened?”_

_“I-,” he says, but he can’t go on. What is he supposed to say? How?_

_“Tom.” Abraxas’ hands are on his skull now, his fingers like spider’s legs. “Tom, look at me.”_

_He does._

_Abraxas’ eyes are green but all he sees is the brown of his father’s. Abraxas is worried, but he sees nothing but the terror of his grandmother. Abraxas is touching him but it only reminds him of his grandfather reaching out to stop him._

_“Breathe,” Abraxas says. He puts one of Tom’s hands on his own chest. “Like me.”_

_He realizes his heart is beating extremely fast. His breaths are short._

_“Look at me,” Abraxas says, “and breathe.”_

_He tries to. It’s hard. His lungs doesn’t work properly. His back is aching. His head feels light. The world is spinning._

_“Whatever happened, we can talk about it in the morning,” Abraxas says after a while. He can’t be sure how long they’ve been standing here. “You have to get some sleep first.”_

_“No!” He says. Then, a bit more quiet: “No. You’ll hate me.”_

_“I could never hate you,” Abraxas says. It sounds like one of the things he’d say, but his eyes look so sure Tom almost believes. “You should know that already.”_

_Does he know, he thinks suddenly. Does he know about the girl-_

_He doesn’t ask. He thinks he knows the answer already._

_Abraxas lets him lie down in his bed. He gives him a sleeping robe identical to his own. He orders a house elf to get them tea when Tom says he can’t sleep._

_It’s still so dark outside._

_Tom thinks he may never fall asleep again._

_Why didn’t it feel like this when the girl died, he wonders. There was no blood that time either._

_Abraxas is sitting next to him, observing. It’s hard to figure out what’s on his mind. It’s always been hard. There seems to be so much more to him than people see, Tom thinks. When he’s thinking about Abraxas, he doesn’t have to think about what he’s done._

_They’re silent for some time. Tom drinks his tea and it tastes good. He can’t believe he can still feel the sweetness of it. Not after-_

_“I’ve killed my father,” he says._

_The words leave him and he doesn’t feel anything. Suddenly, he’s empty. As if the words took all of his burden with them._

_He watches Abraxas. His faces changes. There’s surprise and there’s fear. But there’s also worry and compassion and Abraxas says:_

_“I’m so sorry, Tom.”_

_Then, his arms are on Tom again. It’s a hug, Tom realizes, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t know what to do. What’s Abraxas sorry for? It’s Tom who should be sorry. But he’s not, he thinks. He’s not sorry at all._

_“When?” Abraxas says into the back of his neck._

_“Three days ago.”_

_The hug gets tighter. He can smell Abraxas’ skin. It’s a warm scent he didn’t know before. He likes it._

_“Did you,” Abraxas says. “Did you cover your tracks?”_

_He nods. It’s surreal, he thinks._

_“Good,” Abraxas says. “Good.”_

_They sit in the dark. Tom moves his arms at last and wraps them around Abraxas. They’re even closer now. He tries to match their breaths. He can feel Abraxas’ on his neck. It’s warm, like his skin._

_“It wasn’t him,” he says. The sky is slowly getting paler outside the window. “My father wasn’t a wizard.”_

_“I-,” Abraxas says and then stops. He sighs. “I think I knew. For a while.”_

_Tom waits. He doesn’t understand._

_“I thought,” Abraxas says, “I thought that no wizard could ever abandon you. Every parent would be proud of a son like you, Tom.”_

_He clenches his fists on Abraxas’ shirt. Something inside him hurts. He’s not sure why. He doesn’t want it to. He’s strong. He’s always been. Even if he didn’t want to._

_“I’ve checked- I’ve checked all the families we know. If there was a child missing. But there were none.” Abraxas doesn’t move. Tom wishes he could see his face. “So I figured it must’ve been your mother.”_

_The sheets shift under them. Abraxas’ knees touch his. They’re face to face now._

_“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”_

_He realizes Abraxas’ eyes look oddly wet. And that his own feel like they may get wet soon too. He’s not sure why. Not because of his father, he knows that much. Maybe he wants to cry over himself._

_Is it a weakness, he thinks. He can’t be weak. He doesn’t want to._

_Abraxas sniffles. He looks at him again._

_“Sorry,” Abraxas says. “It’s so stupid. I thought you’ve died. Or maybe went to war without telling me.”_

_Tom doesn’t know what’s happening. Why he’s not being judged. Why Abraxas is still talking to him. Why he’s still in his bed and not running away._

_“You’ll stay, won’t you?” Abraxas goes on. He always does it when he’s nervous, Tom thinks. “Mother will be delighted.”_

_“I will,” he says. He’s feeling so many things at once. “If you want me to.”_

_“I do,” Abraxas says. He does it so quickly it sounds like he’s cutting Tom off. “I really do.”_

* * *

Draco’s in the library when he walks in. He looks up when the door opens and before he gets a chance to compose himself, Tom sees everything - the fear, the annoyance and the resignation. 

Are all of them like this, he wonders. The Malfoys. He never gets to read Narcissa so easily.

“Good evening, my lord.”

He nods and walks closer. It’s raining outside and he’s been terribly bored all day long. Ever since they got rid of Rufus, things started moving on their own. Like a machine he doesn’t really have power over. Or interest in. 

The child is still missing, he thinks. Then he thinks about the ring and it feels like a wound somewhere in him. It won’t ever heal, he knows. There’s even less of him left now.

“Homework?” He says. He recognizes the book. Is it the same copy, he wonders.

“Yes, my lord.” Draco sounds empty. He thinks he’s heard that voice before.

“I’m a seven,” he says. “Always been.”

He almost laughs. Almost, because the sound he makes is not a real laugh. 

Draco looks up. He seems alerted now. 

He wishes he could laugh once more, even if for a single time. Like he used to. In this very room, he thinks.

“Aren’t you a two, my lord?” Draco says suddenly. 

He looks at the piece of parchment Draco’s holding. There’s a row of letters and numbers on it.

“Lord is not a name,” he says, closing his eyes. 

The laugh doesn’t work this time around either.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Draco says. He sounds so scared it’s slowly getting on his nerves. But he’s the one who's made him like this, isn’t he? 

“A common mistake,” he says. He thinks - he knows - Abraxas would've laughed. 

Draco doesn’t laugh. He’s tense and he doesn’t move an inch. He’s barely breathing at all.

“I could’ve been a nine, did you know?” He says. 

Draco shakes his head. 

“Seven may be the most powerful magical number, but nine is the number of perfection,” he goes on. 

“I’m a nine,” Draco says.

It’s unexpected for both of them. Draco tries to move his hands to cover his mouth but resigns halfway through it. 

He looks at Draco wondering.

“Who chose your name?” He says.

“My father liked Draco, but that’d make me a five,” Draco says. “Grandfather didn’t like fives.”

Five, he tries to remember. Imbalance. Change. Lack of commitment.

“So he tricked Lucius by advising him to give you his own name,” he says. 

He looks at Draco again, trying to see what Abraxas had to see. His first and only grandson, his family's future and heir. A nine instead of a five.

He doesn’t see much more than a proud but scared schoolboy who’s hiding letters in his closet and who managed to make a fool of Albus Dumbledore in his own school.

Is this how perfection looks, he wonders. He’s not sure.

* * *

_“Tom,” he hears a voice behind his back._

_It’s been a long day and he's dreamsing of nothing more than a long peaceful sleep and maybe a cup of tea before that, but that voice- That voice makes his heart a bit lighter._

_“Abraxas,” he says. Then, he smiles. Abraxas’ lips are on his own for a short sweet moment. He smells of fall and home, Tom thinks. “What are you doing here?”_

_“It’s so hard to catch you these days,” Abraxas says, sitting down. He waves his wand and a second chair appears. “You’re busy like a bee.”_

_The look on Abraxas’ face tells him there’s more reproach in this visit than he lets slip in his words. He must’ve heard something._

_He tries to recall where exactly has he been this week. Who has he spoken to. The list is long and meticulously organized._

_“I thought we could go somewhere, for a few days” Abraxas says. “Together.”_

_There’s something new in his voice, Tom thinks. A note of despair he hasn’t heard before._

_It scares him. It makes him think of chains for some reason._

_“I can’t leave the shop,” he says quickly. He thinks he could easily leave the shop if he only wanted to._

_Abraxas sighs but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he waves his wand again and soon, the water in Tom’s kettle starts boiling. Then, his two cups fill themselves with tea. He takes one of them in his hands even though it’s too hot. He has to occupy himself with something. Looking at Abraxas makes him feel too many things at once. It always does._

_“Mother keeps asking when you’ll visit,” Abraxas is saying now. “Can you imagine she got herself a seedling of devil’s snare?”_

_“Oh,” he says. He can’t think of anything else. He stopped answering Mrs Malfoy letters a few months ago._

_“Father still wants to take you on that trip,” Abraxas says. “To Japan. He’s keeping a place for you.”_

_He feels guilty now and he wonders if that’s why Abraxas is saying all these things. If he wants him to feel bad. About not visiting, not writing back, not having time. About slowly disappearing._

_“And I,” Abraxas goes on. The way his voice rings in his ears scares him. “I just really want you to come back home, Tom.”_

_He doesn’t say anything. Nothing he says will make this better, he thinks. There’s no coming back to how things used to be. He’s not the same person anymore._

_“All these new friends of yours,” Abraxas says. He’s looking at the floor now._

_“They’re not my friends,” he says. He’s only ever has one friend, he thinks, and he’s sitting on the other side of the small table._

_“Oh, I’ve heard,” Abraxas says. The sound he makes is not a laugh. It’s not a real snark either. “They prefer going by followers, don’t they?”_

_He wonders if he could explain. It was never his idea. He wanted to do it all alone, from the very beginning. But it was so hard, doing things on his own. Especially when you didn’t have a name. Or parents. Or a past._

_And people liked listening to him, didn’t they?_

_“Tom,” Abraxas says._

_But he can’t let him. Not when his insides feel like cracking and splitting in half so he could be both - the Tom Abraxas is looking for and the other one, the one he’s imagined and planned._

_“I have a new name,” he says. “One I’ve made for myself. To have a new start. To erase-”_

_“You’ll still be a seven,” Abraxas says. “Nothing will change. Lord is not a name.” This time, the laugh doesn’t work either. “A common mistake.”_

_He doesn’t know what to say. He’s never believed it, not much anyway. But Abraxas liked his numbers and their meaning and magic._

_Maybe being a seven suits him, he thinks. In the end, if everything goes according to plan, there’ll be seven-_

_“And you could be a nine, you know?” Abraxas says. He’s standing up now. “I’ve checked it hundreds of times.”_

_There’s a piece of parchment on the table now. It looks like someone has been carrying it in a pocket for quite a while._

_He looks closer. There’s his name. There are numbers too. A row of them. Then another. Then, there’s a nine._

_“See?” Abraxas says._

_“They’ll never accept me,” he says. His heart is beating so fast suddenly._

_“Who?” Abraxas says. “My mother? Or maybe my father?”_

_“They-” He doesn’t know what to say. How to explain. “I come from nowhere. A void. You don’t want this." Abraxas looks like he's about to protest, but he doesn't let him. "And they- they will never have someone like me as-"_

_Son, he tries to say._

_The word doesn't want to leave his body. It gets stuck somewhere between his lungs and throat. He wonders if he'll choke on it._

_“No, Tom,” Abraxas says. He doesn't sound defeated, not anymore. He sounds angry. And he doesn't get angry often, Tom thinks. “This is not who I am. This is who you are. It's what you choose to believe. You're a coward, Tom."_

_He wants to protest, to say something. But he doesn't get a chance. Abraxas's not there anymore._

_He’s left with an emptiness where he has been standing moments ago._

_He’s not sure what to do with it._

* * *

The house is empty. It sounds empty. 

It’s always been like this in the early morning, he thinks. As if there was no one else in it but the two of them. 

He’s on the first floor. There’s the room with periwinkle walls and the library. He keeps walking on.

There’s the long corridor and the staircase. He remembers walking down these steps for the last time. He came up with a pile of letters and something like a scream forming inside of him. He came down with empty hands and the scream turning into a hollowness somewhere in his chest.

The portrait is where it should be, right between Abraxas' father and son. He's made sure they'd be asleep.

“Good morning,” he says. He stays hidden in the dark.

"Good morning, Tom," Abraxas says.

"It's been a while," he says.

Abraxas makes a face that tells him he can't believe they're having this conversation. That of all things they should say Tom is about to discuss weather and last Sunday's quidditch match.

If there were any quidditch matches, that is. They had to suspend the league, hadn't they? Tom thinks that maybe they shouldn't have. He'd have something to talk about.

"Let me see you," Abraxas says. He looks older but he doesn't look sick, Tom thinks. He looks respectable but he doesn't look happy. Not really.

He takes a step closer. 

He doesn't want to be seen, not by Abraxas and not like this.

And at the same time, it may be the only thing he wants in the entire world. For Abraxas to see him. For Abraxas to realize that this is what he's been all along. A seven or a nine, it never mattered at all. 

"You've aged well," he says, because Abraxas has been quite for a while. It seemed too long.

"Can't say the same about you," Abraxas says. There's a sigh in it.

At least I'm alive, he wants to say, but he doesn't. Abraxas may laugh at him and he's not sure what he'd do if Abraxas laughed at him.

"I'm sorry, Tom," Abraxas says. He makes a point of using his name. He always had. 

"No," he says. 

Then, he falls silent. 

There are so many things he wants to say. There's longing and anger and so much sorrow. There's a whole speech he thought he had ready in his head that he can't find now. 

He looks at the freckles on Abraxas' nose and thinks about the seven goblin generals. For some reason, he remembers all of them.

"I'm glad you're here," he hears Abraxas say. "Thought you'd never show up."

I was too ashamed, he thinks. He doesn't say it though. 

"You were right," he says instead. "About me."

I was a coward, he keeps to himself.

"I was a fool," Abraxas says. "I should've made you stay."

"You couldn't," he says, because it's true. 

They stay silent for a while. Tom's looking at his feet and then at Abraxas' hands. There's a piece of paper in one of them. He thinks he can recognize it. It looks as if someone has been carrying it in their pocket for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always had a lot of feelings for these two separately and I'm not really sure why I've never tried writing them together. Lots of fun and I definitely have a few more ideas now.


End file.
